


July, 1969

by baethoven



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Makeup Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 07:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baethoven/pseuds/baethoven
Summary: On a hot day in July, 1969, Aziraphale shows up at Crowley’s door.





	July, 1969

**Author's Note:**

> This is best read to “I Can’t Quit You Baby” by Led Zeppelin.

Mid-July heat is oppressive- muggy and thick, permeating the city and sitting heavy in the streets. Though not quite as hot as the deepest circles of Hell, Crowley finds it miserable all the same. Even his cold blood has it’s limits. 

Crowley is dripping with sweat, fat drops of it pearling on his neck and running down his sharp lines, falling from his cheekbones and pattering against Aziraphale’s slick back. In the corner of the room, a fan is whirring and creaking side to side, pushing stagnant air around.

Crowley pushes deeper into Aziraphale. 

“_Yes_,” the angel moans, his voice cracking on the vowel. If Crowley could see his face, he’d wager it’s the same one Aziraphale wears after the first bite of something truly delectable; brows scrunched, eyes fluttered shut, his lips careening slightly to the left in a crooked little grin.

Crowley draws his hips back, slowly, letting himself feel the drag of Aziraphale’s body, inch by blessed inch. The angel groans on the backswing, grinding into the twisted sheets. He’s so pliant, strung out on the steady pump of Crowley after hours of this. There’s a record playing, an LP that’s been whirring this whole time, blues and deep animal crooning on repeat. Crowley put the record on when they’d first entered the bedroom, Aziraphale seated on the edge of the bed with nervous energy; they haven’t flipped it to the B side, too caught up in each other. The record knows better than to stop.

Crowley snaps his hips forward, bottoming out and punctuating Aziraphale’s moan. He braces himself, his hands atop of Aziraphale’s, fingers lacing where the angel claws at the bed. “Again,” he demands.

Crowley obliges.

It’s been two years since they’ve seen each other, two years since Aziraphale gave him the flask of Holy Water with regret on his face. It’s been much longer since they’d done this. Their most recent rift was not the longest in their history- they had spent thousands of years as distant enemies once, Crowley frequently reminds himself- but it cut the deepest, made every passing year intolerable. For a time they had not see each other, let alone touched, and Crowley wiled away decades asleep, trying to forget the absence of Aziraphale’s fingers. Things seemed to have improved to a strained détente after the Blitz, but only enough for Aziraphale to tolerate Crowley’s orbiting, a handful of meals and shared cordials without a single invitation into the bookshop.

Crowley fucks harder into Aziraphale, keeping the same maddening tempo but with percussive fervor, each thrust a little harder than the first. It’s surreal to be here, to be within, after so many years.

The Holy Water was not a gesture of reconciliation; it was an appeasement, a surrender. Crowley had seen peace negotiations less fraught. The way Aziraphale’s eyes shone wet in the neon of Soho, his voice quavering as he declared _you go too fast for me_, Crowley, was him going past the middle on weak legs to Crowley’s ground. What should have been an end to their Cold War, a negotiation to reinstate relations (_we could go for a picnic, dine at the Ritz_) instead staid Crowley’s hand. He could not imagine asking more of his friend, not with a flask of what Aziraphale surely saw as his inevitable demise. He had driven the Bentley home and swore he would not encroach on the angel any further.

And then Aziraphale had shown up on his door step, the first few buttons of his wide collared shirt undone and simply said, like he always had, “I was in the neighborhood.”

The hours long pace is starting to unravel. Crowley has had centuries to learn Aziraphale’s body and knows by the way he is meeting each thrust with a twist of his hips that the angel is close. Crowley lays the whole of himself atop the angel, chest to back, and grinds into the wet heat of him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cries. It is the sweetest incantation, said with more fervor than any prayer ever uttered on this blasted rock. His declaration of, “_Lord_, Crowley, please don’t stop, I’m _close_,” is supplication to the demon’s ears. It is in Crowley’s baser nature to hoard the worship of his angel, to steal from Her the most ardent of Aziraphale’s prayers.

Crowley bites at Aziraphale’s neck, sucks at the pale skin, that elicits a full body sob from him. “Tell me you need this,” Crowley hisses.

“Need it,” Aziraphale groans.

“Then take it.”

Aziraphale comes with a shout muffled into the mattress below him, his body clenching so hard it drags Crowley’s own orgasm out of him. He had wanted to fuck the angel through it, to keep fucking him til it was too much, but as always, Aziraphale undermines every one of Crowley’s plans. He sobs into the angels neck, lets salt slicked curls muffle the sound of his cry of relief, of mourning at the imminent loss.

They linger there, still entwined and breathing the heavy, stagnant air until Crowley softens and slowly withdraws. He flops on his back, stares up at the popcorn ceiling, the texture blurring as his eyes swim.

“Darling,” Aziraphale drawls, throwing an arm over Crowley’s chest. “That was exquisite.”

Crowley blinks the tears away, clears up his eyes. “Angel,” he says, voice raw from their previous exertions, “please don’t do that to me again.”

Aziraphale’s luxurious stretching stills, arms gone rigid atop Crowley.

“Crowley-”

Crowley turns his head to look at him, his blue eyes concerned, stark in contrast from the pleasant flush of a good fuck. Crowley tries to swallow the emotions down but finds them stuck in his mouth.

“I can’t go decades without this,” Crowley confesses. “Don’t banish me away again.”

Aziraphale looks like he wants to argue the point, to correct Crowley and say _no, it was you that tore this rift_, but he bites it back with a look of uneasy contrition. For all his angelic qualities, remorse has never been one of them. Crowley is sure that the angel didn’t even feel it in the face of the Almighty, probably skirted around the issue of his culpability like he’d always done. But to watch him struggle for it, for Crowley’s sake, means something.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale finally says. He draw Crowley closer to him, lays soft kisses upon each eyelid, a single benediction pressed close-lipped against his forehead, before withdrawing to meet Crowley’s gaze. “I swear, I will never send you away again.”

Crowley closes his eyes against Aziraphale’s sincerity, let’s himself be drawn into the soft hollow beneath the angel’s chin, and thinks, _What a rotten liar._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! You can find me on [tumblr](%E2%80%9Ccelloing.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) or [twitter.](%E2%80%9Ctwitter.com/baethoven9%E2%80%9D)


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